The bleak hills are treacherous
but so full of wonder, a powerful draw.
What they mean is not clear, as I follow in fear,
of missing beauty and forgotten song.

It changes and sails through seas of possibility,
only stopping to regroup and reform the band.
It comes back with a hit, a bigger hit, an even bigger hit.
It works for a while, strength to strength,
but it's eager to fail, and for that, I can't wait!

But I cannot enjoy, what I never enjoy
and when cheeky it acts, I have to react
with a swinging of hips or a licking of lips.
Twenty minutes know all of my worth.
They can't contain it, never in verse,
but in spiralling passages of ice,
a similar material to that of the bleak hills.

Another pause, nervously now, we walk timidly
into the open jowls of jazz.
We can't comprehend, we've not the skill or the feel
to go on these journeys of timid mills,
more dangerous than any that I've ever seen.

All else is fading, the piano is raging
away from jazz and into that of the down right
avant guarde.
Melody fights back.
It quickly surrenders to reverb and spirit,
a pretty ditty with no reservations
or indeed destinations, as though jazz in the sky,
as opposed to jazz on the street.

People will say that it's all made up,
and that it had absolutely no planning.
But I ask you this; if this were the case,
and my pulse not accelerated, and my heart doesn't race,
then why do I see above those bleak hills of yours.

On an aeroplane made of clarity and a new age,
above the clouds and riding the sky,
aerodynamic and dynamically airy
it builds and swoops, it is the pinnacle.
From here the music sounds perfect.

The only too familiar ride back down.
Sky from blue to green,
weather from fair to mean.
We tumble, and lose ourselves.
To numb to even notice.

The wreckage was a poor sight.
The death and chaos was widespread.
Nobody had survived, this shiny holocaust.
And we caused it. We failed to pay our way.
It took years to happen, it was subtle over time,
but we destroyed that industry,
the very same that gave us strawberry fields
to live in forever. The age of consumer apathy.

It is still trying to dig itself up. Its great reprise.
This bird will sing again. He will fly skyward, once more.
A different kind of rain approaches,
the heavy and terrifying type
that signifies a rebirth.

01/21/2010

Author's Note: The first poem I've written using a few new experimental composition ideas I had. The results are better than I expected, but far from perfect.

Posted on 01/21/2010
Copyright © 2024 Danny Washington